


a dance to the beat of death

by ThinkingCAPSLOCK



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Black Romance, Blood, F/M, Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-10 03:05:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThinkingCAPSLOCK/pseuds/ThinkingCAPSLOCK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If she hadn't been lying in a pool of lime blood, she could've been asleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a dance to the beat of death

Someone must have folded her hands on her chest, but hadn't moved her body yet. She lies centered on the stain. You grin down. Little Cal, fast asleep, off in the abyss. Except she's not about to wake up again. She's gone now. No trace left of her from your old dead shared husk. Now it was just pure you. Pure. Godhood. And her tiny shriveled corpse. 

She was uglier than you, just like you always imagined she was. Bitch still had all her teeth though. Both her legs. It didn't falter your grin. Didn't matter how different you were. Because after all, you're the one standing up, looking down. 

Her face needs a big bruise on her left eye. You lean down. And just. Slam your fist. 

Her skin gives. It plops and crunches and hisses, little cuts opening throughout her leather face. Her head turns to the side. Completely. Dead. 

"I told you I'd get you," you tell her, unable to keep your voice lower than a shout. Her hands look so. Unnatural. Folded up like that. You shift them apart. Keep them tight in yours. Cold and dead and rough. 

You've never touched her before today. 

Her hands don't grip. They aren't soft or warm or. Comfortable. And it's just what she was in your mind. Horrid in every way. Inferior to you. And now you have proof your bodies are different. Hers is right there. And yours isn't. 

Your gut twists and your hands clench hard as you haul her to her feet. Her dress is soaked green and ripped. You can see a bit of bone and organ through the holes in her chest. Stained green. Just like her skin. Just like her dull eyes and sharp teeth. You drag her more and she flops forward, stiff and rigid with her face in your shoulder. 

It's too rich. You let out a laugh. She shakes against you and you squeeze her hands. 

"I told you girl. I told you I'd get you and kill you and look, I did. And I'm going. To. Drain. Every drop of blood out of you and cover the sky in it. What a hideous shade." 

You spin around, sliding a hand around her waist, holding her thin arm out with your fingers locked. Her head looks awkward, shifting eerily to your movements. Her body is frail and bony and sticky with blood. She doesn't move or even blink. You begin to cross the room, your feet and golden peg patting light and airy. Hers slam and crash against the floor. 

"What a shit dancer you are," you hiss. Your heart starts. To pound. A beat. And your feet shift in motion to it, the vibration carrying both of you over the drying pool of green, over your own footprints, over scraps of torn yellow fabric and over your sister's hopes and dreams and plans. You step on all of them. You crush them. You keep her body flush against yours. 

Her skirt twirls and sags. Your shirt gets damp and wet from the contact. Your shoe turns lime on the sole, your peg is stained and splashed and your coat drags through. 

You squeeze her fingers and hand until you hear a snap of bone. Your jaw aches from grinning and your heart pounds louder. You spin and step and dance. Images of her clean room. Her stupid troll drawings. And her friends. Just. Bubble through your mind, and you feel dizzy and lightheaded and you laugh and laugh. 

The beat slows and you cradle her close for a moment, claws digging into her back and hand. You drop her on the ground. She slams into the floor with a thud and thunk. Crumples and folds in on herself. And you watch. Until she's still. 

No one could fold her back up to look humble and peaceful and sleeping anymore. She's sharp twists and misplaced angles. At least you gave her. One. Last. Dance. To see her off. You lean down close and hover your face over hers. Seconds. Minutes. 

You straighten without ever making contact. You open and close your hands, remembering her cold fingers on yours. She is the ugliest thing you have ever known.


End file.
